


A Minor Adjustment

by Chichuri



Category: Fringe
Genre: F/M, Genderswap, Humor, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-25
Updated: 2010-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-06 23:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chichuri/pseuds/Chichuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olivia runs afoul of a pathogen that changes her from female to male.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Minor Adjustment

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle IX. Prompts used: genderswap, secret. Given the reactions of the characters involved, this story should either be categorized as crackfic or as evidence that the Fringe team has become way too jaded.  About a ton of thanks go to [](http://crazylittleelf.livejournal.com/profile)[**crazylittleelf**](http://crazylittleelf.livejournal.com/) , [](http://muselives.livejournal.com/profile)[**muselives**](http://muselives.livejournal.com/) , [](http://alamo-girl80.livejournal.com/profile)[**alamo_girl80**](http://alamo-girl80.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://vagajammer.livejournal.com/profile)[**vagajammer**](http://vagajammer.livejournal.com/) for enabling me; without them this story never would have been finished. 

One minute, Olivia feels nauseous and dizzy, and then the world greys out. She blinks and everything comes back into focus, but her balance is off, her clothes feel strangely uncomfortable, and, when she looks down, she realizes her chest is unusually flat.  She knows she's not the most well-endowed female around, but she's rather fond of her breasts, and their loss is... well, disconcerting at the least. Sending her two steps from fully freaking out, if she wants to be honest with herself. She's lived through a hell of a lot in three years, but this is taking it a step too far.   
    
"What the _hell_?"  And that's another shock. It's her voice—her tone, her phrasing, her cadence—but an octave deeper that it should be.   
    
"Huh."   
    
Olivia raises her eyes to Peter's. If Peter, who has a quip for everything, is reduced to monosyllabic reactions, it's just as bad as she thinks.   
    
Astrid stares, mouth agape, but Walter, true to form, takes it in stride. "A complete transformation from female to male. I haven't seen that before."   
    
"Well, make it _stop_."  And that comes out more plaintive than forceful, which annoys her even more.   
    
Walter peers at her curiously. "Are you experiencing any negative effects?"   
    
She shrugs. "I feel fine." She feels _odd_, but nothing that she would define as negative. Except, of course, being male.   
    
"More importantly, why did it happen?" Peter paces around her, surveying the change—no, damn it, checking her out. He's given her that appraising look often enough—and in intimate enough situations—that she damned well knows what he's doing. She glares at him; he just raises an eyebrow, an unholy gleam in his eyes.   
    
Damn him and his experimental bent.   
    
"Perhaps she has shifted from a universe where she was born male." Walter sounds excited by the prospect.   
    
"Oliver Dunham?" Peter shakes his head. "No, looked more like she was transforming, not shifting between realities. Maybe some sort of pathogen, like the hedgehog guy."   
    
"Great," she mutters, not impressed by the lack of concern either of them seem to have about the situation. "So I'm going to go crazy and attack people?"   
    
Walter looks up from the notebook where he's been rapidly scrawling notes. "Do you feel the urge to do violence, Agent Dunham?"   
    
"I feel like hitting Peter."   
    
Peter smirks. "So no more than normal." Before she gives in to the stronger than usual urge to swat him—which he'd probably like, damn him—he adds "Look at it this way, at least this is keeping it within the species."   
    
"I prefer being in the _other_ half of the species. I _like_ being a woman."   
    
"Well, I like you being a woman, too," Peter murmurs, and Olivia is glad neither Walter nor Astrid can see the knowing grin he gives her, "but I'm trying to look on the bright side."   
    
Astrid studies her for a moment and shrugs sympathetically. "You do make a cute guy."   
    
"Not helping!" Olivia stalks to the other side of the lab, fighting the urge to scream. Or break something. Even walking feels wrong; her balance is off, and her limbs don't quite move the way they're supposed to.   
    
Peter leans against the lab bench, looking like he's choking, but she knows, _knows_, he's fighting laughter.   
    
Bastard.   
    
Walter and Peter start bouncing ideas back and forth about the sort of infectious agent that could be screwing with her body, science babble about vectors of infection and genetics and chromosomes with digressions into potential side effects and possible treatment options. She cares less than normal, and since she never really cares about the whys as long as the Bishops can find the clues that lead her to the whos, she really, _really_ doesn't care why the hell this happened as long as Walter can find a way to make it _stop_.   
    
At least she just wrapped up their latest case; other than paperwork she doesn't have anything she specifically needs to do.   
    
And speaking of that case—"Walter? Blood transmission. Infectious agents can get in through open wounds."   
    
Peter looks up, concerned; Walter nods. "Of course."   
    
"Menge's lab. I got cut by glass in the fight. Was he working on anything that could have caused this?"   
    
"We haven't had a chance to thoroughly investigate the breadth of his research—"   
    
"We don't know." Peter interrupts. "Why didn't you mention you were hurt?"   
    
Because he'd been stuck back in the lab and wasn't in the field to see her get hurt, and because he'd had no chance to see her naked in the last twenty hours so she hadn't needed to explain what happened. "It was just a scratch." That required seven stitches. "It didn't seem important."   
    
"I'll need to examine the wound," Walter says.   
    
Shit. So much for underplaying her injury.  She pushes up her sleeve and Walter mutters over the cut, taking scrapings that make her wince. Peter doesn't comment, but from his expression she bets he's saving up words for later.   
    
She watches what Walter's doing, not the arm that's not quite her own. Not yet.   
    
"And a full physical," Walter says when he's done. "We need to study the extent of these changes."   
    
Wonderful.   
    
She gets poked and prodded, donates enough blood and tissue samples to serve as the foundation for Walter's wild experiments for years to come. She's torn between studying her body and not wanting to see how she's changed. It's bad enough to have fragments of John still floating around informing her of what it feels like to be male, or the even stronger but less sneaky memories of being inside Nick's skin while having sex with the dancer, without totally losing _herself_. Being male is rapidly starting to feel normal, and she chokes down the panic that swamps her every time she thinks about it too closely.   
    
She's fully anatomically male. That she checked. As did Walter, which she'd really, _really_ rather scrub from her brain.   
    
Peter, who helps with the exam, keeps giving her these weird little glances, part amused, part speculative, and that half-grin keeps flitting back when he doesn't think she realizes he's watching her.   
    
Walter declares her perfectly healthy, at least for the moment. "We need to determine how deep the changes run. On a physical level, of course, but also on a psychological level."   
    
"Great." She sighs as she starts shrugging into a set of clothes Peter donated. "So what next?"   
    
"An MRI, perhaps. And we need to test if your physical responses are appropriate for the sex of the body you now wear."   
    
Peter blinks a moment, then coughs and sputters, subsiding only at the evil look Olivia swings his way.   
    
Through gritted teeth Olivia asks, "Physical responses?"   
    
"Sexual response, for one. If you can sustain an erection, and whether you can achieve orgasm. I do wish I had baseline data; perhaps readings from when we hypnotically tuned you to—"   
    
"Walter!" Peter finally chokes out, then starts snickering.   
    
Olivia strangles back a scream and loses her temper completely.   
    
It's only by force—by physically putting himself between her and Walter and muscling her into one of the back rooms—that Peter stops her from strangling his father. And even then she almost manages to get through him, except for the fact she doesn't really want to permanently injure Peter. Much.   
    
It's not that Walter wants to experiment, or even that he recorded her linking with Nick. She expects all that from Walter. It's that he's so casual with things that flip around her entire _life_. And he's not the only one.   
    
She punches Peter on the arm, hard. She only avoids his jaw because she knows him well enough to see the sympathy and concern buried deep under his glee at the possibilities.   
    
"Increased muscle mass," Peter mutters, rubbing his arm. "You're stronger."   
    
"Or just more pissed off."   
    
He shrugs. "Testosterone." She wheels on him, and he takes a quick step back. "Or maybe not. You're perfectly capable of righteous fury without the added benefits of unaccustomed hormones."   
    
"Stop humoring me."   
    
He takes a quick look out the door to confirm that Walter and Astrid are nowhere nearby, then shuts and locks it. He crowds her, not touching but close enough that she can feel his body heat. "Walter's right," he says. "We really should test these changes out. Just to see."   
    
"I don't think—"   
    
"In the name of science. To make sure we understand how the pathogen, if it is a pathogen, has affected your entire system."   
    
"_Peter_," she snaps. But her body responds to the heated expression in his eyes and her underwear is too tight, a new sensation that splits pleasure and discomfort.   
    
Peter, damn him, notices the far-too-visible reaction and grins wickedly. "'Livia," he says, cajoling this time, moving no closer but putting a sensual lilt on her name that spikes her response to him even higher. Literally. The pleasure is both achingly familiar and alien, but her stolen memories take control and declare everything normal.   
    
Too normal.   
    
She can't meet his eyes, just backs to the wall and leans against it, staring at the floor and counting tiles.   
    
"Olivia?" His hands are gentle on her face, and the teasing in his voice has been wiped away by concern. He cradles her jaw, but she still refuses to look at him. He strokes her cheek, runs his fingers along her hairline and smooths back stray hairs that escaped her ponytail. "Tell me what's wrong."   
    
She glares at him at that, meeting his eyes for a brief moment before focusing on the wall behind him. It's a lovely shade of beige, much safer to look at than Peter if infinitely more boring. "You really need to ask?"   
    
"You're alive and you're healthy—except for that damned cut on your arm, anyway."   
    
"And male. Don't forget that part." She wants to insist that he shouldn't forget that blatantly obvious little detail because she can't, but it would be too easy for John's and Nick's memories to convince her otherwise. Too easy to lose herself. The fear she's held tightly in check curls around her, and she can't breathe through the tightness in her chest.   
    
She sees Peter tilt his head out of the corner of her eye.  "You're saying there's something my father can't reverse engineer?"   
    
"The hedgehog virus."   
    
He pauses and nods. "Yeah, okay."   
    
"What if...?" She can't say it, and she doesn't know if she's more scared of being stuck in this form or how quickly she's getting used to it. She doesn't even want to contemplate that she might like it.   
    
"You're you." He runs one hand down her arm to rest on her hip. The other still cradles her jaw, thumb rubbing circles against her cheekbone. "Doesn't matter if you're male or female. You're still Olivia Dunham, no matter what form you wear."   
    
Her eyes snap to his and she searches his expression, looking for the lie inside his words. He snorts and shakes his head. "I didn't fall in love with you for your body. Not that that wasn't an added bonus, of course."   
    
"Of _course_," she echoes mockingly, "but that's beside the point." Beside the point, but his calm rationality does its job; her determination reasserts itself and the worst of her panic ebbs away.  She can deal with this. Whatever happens, she will get through it. The Cortexiphan was worse, this is just... different.   
    
An adventure. Hopefully a temporary one.   
    
He studies her, catching every nuance of her expression, she's sure.  He's always had an annoying and unfailing ability to read her, even when he's being his most maddening. She closes her eyes, leaning into the hand on her cheek and breathing in the familiar scents of his soap and his skin.   
    
Peter leans forwards, his breath puffing softly against her ear. "And if it _is_ temporary, don't you want to get a better idea how the other half lives while you have the chance?"   
    
And back to that, because Peter is nothing if not persistent. She can't help the soft huff of laughter. "Given what I have stuck in my head—"   
    
"That's them, not you. Don't _you_ want to know? Have your own memories rather than relying on second-hand experience?"   
    
"Don't you mean _you_ want to know?" She opens her eyes to see the return of his wicked grin.   
    
"Only if you want to play."  Despite the grin, his words are serious and his eyes sober. She recognizes that expression from past experience. He won't push any further and if she says to drop it he will, no hard feelings.   
    
And damn it, his willingness to temper his experimental bent to her boundaries sends a bolt of heat to pool in her groin. Again. Whatever misgivings her mind has, her body doesn't share. "Fuck," she mutters, curling her fingers against the wall.   
    
"People in the lab, remember? We might want to be a little more discreet." He takes a step back, leaving the next move entirely in her hands. Her face is cold where his hand had been.   
    
Her choice how far to take it. And since they won't be able to go anywhere else, not until the puzzle of her transformation is solved, anything they do will happen right here.   
    
Well, it wouldn't be the first time.   
    
She steps forwards, threading her fingers through his hair as she meets his lips in a kiss that's a little rough and a lot desperate. Kissing him is familiar, normal, as is the pulse of lust, even though the physical aspects are disconcerting.   
    
She can hold on to him knowing he'll there beside her no matter how fucked up everything might become. And if she really forces herself to be honest and consider some of the situations they've faced? In the grand scheme of things, this barely rates as fucked up at all.   
    
When she pulls back for air, he murmurs, "Yes?" He holds still until she answers with a nod, then pushes her back against the wall, giving a quick kiss to her lips, nibbling down her throat. He drops to his knees and palms the front of her sweatpants. Her breath catches and she clutches his shoulders to steady herself.   
    
He runs his hands up her thighs, cups her hips. Slips his hands under her waistband and lowers sweatpants and underwear, letting her cock spring free.   
    
_Her_ cock. God.   
    
She closes her eyes at the cognitive dissonance, concentrating on sensation rather than mechanics. His hand touching, stroking with the surety of experience. Teasing the tip, firm along the shaft. His mouth, hot and wet, teeth grazing her just the slightest amount. She hisses and tries not to buck, holding herself still only by willpower.   
    
Not that different, really. Just not the same.   
    
When she comes she gasps, then bites her hand to keep from making further sounds as he milks everything from her. He swallows. Not something she ever needed to know, but she finds it oddly endearing. And hot. And she's completely blaming _that_ response on the fact that her body is male.   
    
She opens her eyes, still panting just a little. Peter is leaning back, watching her, a fierce grin on his lips and tenderness in his eyes. "Good?" he asks, running his fingernails along her thigh.   
    
She laughs breathlessly, lacing her fingers with his and pulling him up for a kiss.   
    
"Peter?" Walter calls out, his voice muffled by the—fortunately locked—door. "Agent Dunham?"   
    
Olivia snickers. Peter leans his forehead against hers and gives her a quick grin.  They do their best to make themselves look like they didn't just sneak off to the other room for a quickie. Given Astrid's amusement as they enter the lab proper, their effort to be discreet is probably a lost cause.  Probably has been for months.   
    
"I'm sorry," Astrid mutters when they come within earshot. "I couldn't distract him any longer."   
    
Olivia gives her a sympathetic smile and steels herself for whatever news Walter is so eager to relate.   
    
"Your condition, my dear, is due to a virus." Walter puts an image up on the screen. It means nothing to Olivia but Peter studies it intently. Walter zooms in, focusing on what looks like a single cell. "A particularly intriguing specimen, I might add, specifically tailored to create a short term switch between male and female. When a Y chromosome is present, the virus acts to silence it, and when a second X chromosome is present, the virus acts as a Y chromosome. The true marvel is the way the virus coordinates a nearly instantaneous remodeling of—"   
    
"Walter!" Peter says sharply.  "So it's short term?"   
    
"Oh, yes." Walter turns to Olivia, beaming. "The effects will wear off within seventy-two hours, if my estimates are correct, and the virus will pass harmlessly from your system."   
    
Relief makes her knees weak. "So I'll be back to normal within three days."   
    
"Good as new. Better, perhaps, given the virus' effects."   
    
"Thank God," she breathes out. She closes her eyes and rubs her face. "Thank you, Walter."   
    
"So we still have three days," Peter says with studied nonchalance. "That's not too bad. I'm sure you can manage for three days."   
    
Olivia snorts and shoots him a sideways glare, but he feigns innocence.   
    
Walter bustles about, moving from the lab bench to the microscope then back again to make precise notes. "We'll just have to be careful not to come into contact with your bodily fluids while the virus is running its course. It's highly contagious. Exposure, even to very small amounts, is almost a guarantee of infection."   
    
Peter grows still and, if she doesn't mistake the color, slightly green. "Bodily fluids?"   
    
"Not saliva, fortunately. The amylase in the salivary gland seems to interact with the viral coat to inactivate the virus—fascinating, really—although once the saliva has reached the mouth the effect is not strong enough to neutralize a particularly large dose of the virus. But blood, you'll have to watch for that. Given certain peculiar aspects of the virus' behavior, I highly suspect that it would be present in semen, possibly in quite large amounts, although I haven't been able to test this. Perhaps other fluids as well."   
    
Peter chokes.   
    
Well, so much for keeping their relationship secret. Olivia shakes her head, sighing, and turns to Peter. "It's only three days," she murmurs, and reaches over to pat his hand. Despite the circumstances, she can't help but grin. "Three days isn't that bad, is it?"   
    
He just groans and hides his head in his hands.    
     
 


End file.
